Deluge
by A.Diamond
Summary: In early '96, the Winchesters spent three months in South Dakota because of four missing families. When they left, Dean left behind the first tenuous friendship he'd formed in a long time. A decade later, he's surprised by a call from Sam asking him to come to Stanford for a repeat of an old case, and more surprised when a familiar figure shows up in the middle of it again.
1. THEN

There's beautiful art to go with this story that I would embed if I could. You can find it on somuchcolour's tumblr, post / 144413418094 / spn-case-fic-minibang-deluge-by-adiamond

* * *

When Dean was sixteen and Sam was twelve, their dad wrapped up a salt-and-burn in West Virginia that could ultimately be blamed on the McCoys. Before the remains had time to cool, he was back at the motel telling the boys to pack up and be ready in fifteen; "We're going to South Dakota."

"We going to see Uncle Bobby?" Dean asked as he obeyed. It was easy to keep the excitement out of his voice, because he felt an equal amount of trepidation.

A trip to Sioux Falls could mean some downtime as a family while John and Bobby spent half the day drinking over lore and the other half bullshitting old hunting stories, training the boys and generally relaxing. It could also mean him and Sam getting left there for who knew how long while John took off for some hunt he didn't need or want them along on.

"No. Got a hunt."

That was all the explanation they got before they were on their way, thirty minutes and a shouting match between John and Sam about speediness and unreasonable expectations later. No one talked.

About a third of the way through the nearly nineteen hour drive, once Sam had slumped into a moody nap in the back seat instead of moodily staring out the window, John turned down the music and glanced over at Dean in the passenger seat.

"This is a big one," he said. Dean was instantly on alert, his whole torso turned towards his dad to receive info. "Bobby's heard from a couple guys who already looked into it and came up with nothing, and meanwhile we got whole families going missing. I need you at your best for this, no getting distracted or losing focus until we've got it figured out."

"Yes, sir," Dean answered past the sting of hurt. He knew he wasn't perfect, he'd made mistakes and caused problems, but he always did his best on hunts and he'd thought he was getting pretty good at helping his dad on them. It had been almost a year since he killed his first werewolf, but John's pride in him had been short-lived. His dad's view of him had taken a kick to the ass when Dean had missed his salt-loaded shot while holding off a ghost, then taken too long to reload.

But it had been months since then, months in which he'd done everything right, so he hated that John took his eyes off the road to give him a hard look and emphasize, "I mean it, Dean. No screwing around on this one."

"I won't." If the roll of John's eyes was anything to go by, he hadn't hidden the sullenness of his tone very well. No criticisms of teenage behavioral problems or similarities to Sam were forthcoming, though, so at least they weren't about to get into another argument.

They drove on a few more hours in silence, broken only when Sam started pointing out the exit signs for all the questionable diners and drive-ins along the highway. Dean was also hungry by that point, but didn't feel like getting on one side or the other—or, as was usual, in the middle—of the passive-aggressive fight, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for the two of them to resolve it. Everyone in the car was disgruntled by the time John jerked the car over the line onto an almost-passed off ramp.

"What do we know?" Dean asked once tempers had been tamed by chicken fried steak—John—and seven out of eight slices of a pepperoni and sausage pizza—Sam, who still managed to be hypocritically disgusted by Dean's eating habits—two cheeseburgers and a rootbeer float.

"It started with break-ins," John said as he signalled for the check. "At least a dozen, across a few neighboring towns. Nothing missing, as far as anyone could tell, but any photo albums or frames that weren't in bedrooms had their pictures pulled out and destroyed."

"Destroyed how?" Sam asked, clearly in spite of himself given how he'd continued to sulk up to that point. He hated their work, their travels, and sometimes their father, but damn could the kid geek out over theories and esoteric connections. "There was that ghost in Mount Vernon who undeveloped them, or the werewolf who ate them in—" He caught himself getting overly enthusiastic and slumped back against the vinyl upholstery of the bench, glowering out the window.

John shot Dean a gloating, triumphant smile at that before answering. "Images blurred, paper warped, and a film of salt left behind on them. Trails of salt all over the houses, too."

They paused the conversation as the waitress brought their bill and John dropped a few tens on the table, but back in the Impala Dean commented, "Salt, huh? That rules out some things."

John grunted an agreement.

"What else?" Sam asked. Dean turned in his seat to look back at him, but he kept glaring pointedly at the median guide rail. "You said it started with the break-ins, but we wouldn't be going there just for that."

"Whatever it was, it came back for some of the families. Parents and kids vanished, salt trails in their rooms that weren't there before. There's three missing so far, none from the same town and not taken in the same order as the houses were hit. No consistent timing for any of it, either."

"So. What's the plan?" Dean asked, turning his attention back to the driver's seat. "Scope out the houses, see if we can figure out who's next, wait for something to kill?"

John shook his head. "I'm gonna be coordinating with a couple local guys Bobby knows. Figuring this out might take a while. I need you two at the school to see if there's anything there, it's got kids from all over the area collected in one place. You can work on other research after class."

* * *

Two weeks later, they'd collected three more houses with ransacked photo albums but no new disappearances. No leads, either. John and one of the locals, a bulldog of a man named Fred Metz, had been playing FBI to get access to scenes and files, but every evening John came home frustrated with nothing significant to report. He'd nap for a few hours while the boys—mostly Sam—did their homework and ate, then he'd either have his share of the leftovers from dinner and depart on a fruitless patrol in hopes of catching something in the night, or spend the next few hours training Sam and Dean for whatever evil they might encounter.

Sam had settled in about as well as he usually did: a combination of teenage angst, nerdiness, and resentment made him a prime target for bullies, which he tried to deny until Dean caught a couple of older kids at it and beat the crap out of them.

Dean himself was trying to balance gathering information from other kids, like John had asked, with not being too sociable or letting himself get distracted, also like John had asked. It was uncomfortable and a bit lonely; it wasn't like he expected to have friends or anything, but he usually enjoyed the minor popularity that came with being a mysterious new kid.

"We're not the only new faces in town," John announced over dinner on a rare night when he had joined them while it was still warm. "Fred says there's a kid in your class"—he nodded at Dean—"who showed up right around when the first victims went missing. We can't figure out who he belongs to, so I need you to get a look at his records, see if there's anything weird going on there."

Surprised, Dean asked, "Who? No one's mentioned it, and they're all debating about whether it's a serial killer or a curse."

"Some foreign name... Maybe French?" John mumbled as he pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. "There it is—Castiel Novak. Check up on him, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Castiel Novak was quiet and largely ignored by the rest of the small student body. He had dark, messy hair and blue eyes with a faraway look in them, which combined with his perpetual frown to make him look grumpier than Bobby most of the time.

Once Dean started keeping an eye on him, he mostly found him staring out the window in the back of the classroom or spending lunch in the school's 'library': one table, three chairs, two bookshelves. He wasn't shy, exactly; he didn't hesitate to stare back when he caught Dean looking, but he also never initiated a conversation or answered with more than a few words when anyone talked to him.

After a day and a half of observing him and trying to figure out if there was a better way to go about it, Dean gave up on subtlety. He found Castiel in the library bent over a large book with black and white illustrations, walked up to loom over him, waited for him to look up in puzzlement, and punched him.

"Have I done something to offend you?" Castiel asked as they sat outside the principal's office, waiting to be summoned. He regarded Dean as if he were a riddle, not angry even as a bruise bloomed surprisingly fast and dark on his cheek. Dean hadn't hit the guy that hard and he was familiar with all manner of bruises. Either the guy had sensitive veins or something else was up, because the mottled blue mark had appeared almost instantly under Dean's knuckles.

Between that and his odd manners, Dean decided that Fred might be onto something after all. He still hoped to manage a look at Castiel's file once they were in the office, but he had a chance to try and dig for more information from the kid himself and he wasn't going to disappoint on this case.

He didn't have time to work out much of a strategy with Castiel staring at him quizzically, so he shrugged and said, "Not really. I was just having a bad day and you were there."

"Oh." The confused look didn't leave Castiel's face. "It's just that it seemed that you had come looking for me in particular."

"Yeah, sorry. You seemed like an easy target, I guess. Is this gonna get you in trouble with your parents or anything?"

"No, I don't have an appointed guardian."

Before Dean could question that surprise of a statement, Mr. Rogers called them in. The man had gone overboard embracing his television namesake, complete with a hideous sweater vest and a disturbing coo as he spoke barely loud enough to be understood.

"What seems to be the problem, boys?" he asked sweetly once they'd settled into the chairs facing his desk.

"There is no problem," Castiel started to say, but the principal interrupted.

"I think the issue here is that you're both so new, you haven't really found friends to fit in with yet. I know that can be hard for young men just figuring themselves out, but I think you two can help each other through it. So I want the two of you to try being friends!"

Dean looked sideways at Castiel, but the other boy's face stayed blank as he listened to Mr. Rogers. He didn't seem opposed to the idea, which was a good start.

Mr. Rogers continued, "In fact, I'm so sure it'll help that I'm not even going to punish you for this fight if you promise to spend the rest of the week getting to know each other."

After that, it was easy to talk the man into giving them the rest of the afternoon out of classes so they could 'bond.' They made the walk back to the library in silence, but it felt surprisingly amiable given that Dean had sucker punched Castiel less than half an hour before. Seated across from the other boy at the solitary table, Dean found himself staring at the bruise he'd caused and regretting the circumstances with guilt that increased every quietly passing second.

"Look, man, I really am sorry about the..." Dean gestured at Castiel's face, trailing off when he pulled back without Dean getting anywhere close to actually touching him. Dean grimaced and dropped his hand. Okay, maybe he was still a little wary after being attacked for no reason. That was understandable. "Actually, you want some ice for that? It's looking like it'll be a pretty nasty bruise."

"Oh." Castiel hovered his fingers over the injury. He frowned slightly, then shook his head and rested both palms on the table. "No, thank you."

They sat in silence until Dean started to feel awkward, though Castiel seemed perfectly content. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but something about the way he studied Dean's face carried an air of interest that Dean hadn't seen him display about anything else in the few short days he'd been familiarizing himself with the boy's habits.

"So, Cas," he said when he couldn't handle the wordless staring any longer, "you're really on your own? That sounds rough."

Castiel's usual almost-frown deepened mildly. "It's not a particular hardship. I'm able to provide for myself. Moving to this area has been an adjustment, but I believe it is going well."

It was a perfect opening. "How did you end up out here, if you don't mind me asking? It's kinda, uh, middle of nowhere. If I had a say in it, I'd be gone in a heartbeat."

"I was sent here because it was believed I had family in the area. I haven't been able to locate them yet, but I am content staying either way."

"Sent? By who?"

Cas's face briefly contorted, scrunching inward. "The court, I think. To be honest, I'm not certain of all the details."

Dean couldn't help noting that the entire explanation was incredibly vague, which didn't help him figure out if the kid was at all involved. He took a breath to dig deeper, but Castiel beat him to it.

"And what brought you to the 'middle of nowhere', Dean?"

"Oh, well, I'm a lot more boring. My dad got a lead on a job out this way, so we're here while he's checking it out."

Despite Dean's concern that Cas would try to follow up on that, he just nodded and fell quiet again.

Searching for something to bring the conversation back around without being too obvious, Dean noticed a spread of newspapers under Cas's large book, still open where he'd left it after Dean's assault. He could see part of the headline of the top sheet: 'Four More Missing.'

It was as convenient an opening as any. "What do you think about all the weird goings-on?" he asked, tapping at the paper. "I've heard people's weird theories, but I don't really know any details."

Cas glanced down, but shrugged. "I don't know much. I'm sure I've heard the same rumors, but I've been busy settling into my apartment and catching up on schoolwork."

"You're not worried?"

The ending bell delayed Cas's answer, but once it stopped ringing he just said, "Not really." He packed up quickly, and Dean—who wasn't entirely sure where his bag had ended up and didn't really care—followed him out of the school.

On the sidewalk, he stopped Cas with a gentle touch to his shoulder. Cas tensed and jerked it away, but his face when he turned held only curiosity.

And a dark, fist-sized bruise.

Guy had a right to be a bit jumpy, after all. Maybe it wasn't even Dean's fault; maybe he'd always been a little tightly wound. It would explain why he kept to himself, rarely interacting with anyone, but Dean wasn't gonna let that stop him when he'd actually found someone he liked talking to on a case.

That was a rare enough thing. Yeah, it was easy to pretend he fit in and joke around with the other kids, but they were all so clueless about the real world. Their biggest problems had nothing on a rugaru.

Cas was different. He seemed more worldly, like he'd been through enough already that he didn't care about popularity or whether the hot girls knew his name. He hadn't told Dean what had happened to his parents, but to be totally alone in the world at sixteen, it couldn't have been good.

So even though Dean had already apologized, he wanted to be sure Cas knew he meant it.

"I feel really crappy about taking my bad day out on you," Dean said. "Especially now that we've kinda gotten to know each other. You're a pretty cool guy, Cas. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, let me know, okay?"

Cas's smile spread slowly, almost hesitantly, but it was the first one Dean had seen from the odd boy and he still counted it as a win.

"I will. Thank you, Dean. I also enjoyed our conversation."

* * *

The next day, Dean caught up to Castiel just outside the school.

"Cas, hey!" he called, not wanting to startle him with the thump on the back he normally would have chosen.

Cas turned and Dean felt a flash of panic that quickly faded into disappointment as he had to reevaluate his opinion. The bruise Dean had given him, so quick to appear, was entirely gone, not even a trace of discoloration left on Cas's cheek.

Dean knew, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that nothing healed that fast without some kind of freaky supernatural intervention.

Cas didn't notice his fallen mood, though, greeting him with another tentative smile and, "Hello, Dean."

Trying to fight down the accusation welling up in his throat, Dean forced out a laugh and said, "Wow, that's some miraculous recovery you got going for you."

Cas looked confused until Dean gestured at his unblemished cheek, at which he glanced away and down. Guilt, Dean thought at first, but then Cas muttered a soft explanation about being good with make-up and Dean corrected his assumption to shame.

When the pieces came together—Cas's involvement with the court system, his parents being out of the picture, his aversion to touch, his skill covering up bruises—it all made sense in a way that had Dean kicking himself for not seeing the signs sooner. Like maybe before he beat the guy for no reason.

"No kidding? That's pretty handy. You'll have to show me sometime." He gently bumped his arm against Cas's, which seemed safer than the arm he wanted to sling over his shoulders to lighten the mood, and Cas did relax at the gesture. Leaning in with a fake whisper, Dean went on, "This may come as a shock, but I sometimes get into really stupid fights."

Cas actually laughed at that, a low chuckle that made Dean grin, and they walked to class side by side.

Dean and Cas spent most of their lunches together after that. Sometimes the time passed in comfortable silence, other times in discussion of class subjects, but they never ended talking about the disappearances again. Still, Dean grew more and more certain that whatever was going on, Cas had nothing to do with it.

* * *

The hunt slipped into a lull. As another week went by, then three more, John spent less and less time at the motel after dark. When the boys did see him, exhaustion clouded his eyes and dragged his already rough voice into a groan.

"Take the night off," Dean suggested as he tried to stir some life back into the congealed mess of mac and cheese left in the pot. Their milk had gone off, but with a splash of water and some patience over the miniature stove, he managed to get it to a state nearing edible before serving it to John.

"No, listen," he went on as John spared him a disbelieving look before digging his fork straight into the pot. "It's Friday, I don't even have school in the morning. I'll go out with Fred, you can nerd it up with Sammy. It'd be good to have a new pair of eyes on the books, and maybe you can even get some sleep."

Relief eased John's face, setting off a warm glow of pride in Dean's chest. He hadn't really had the chance to do anything useful on the hunt so far despite spending more time on lore than his homework, which was meaningless anyway. Neither he nor Sam had been able to offer any ideas about what sort of monster they were looking for. They couldn't find anything remotely similar recorded in the past, no mythology that matched. Absolutely nothing to go on.

The one other task he'd been assigned, checking on Castiel, had only been helpful until he'd confirmed that Cas wasn't involved. Since then, Dean had started to feel guilty for spending so much time with Cas at school. It wasn't like he could be doing anything else—he'd already checked in every book in the library, heard everyone's opinions on the families and possible suspects, even poked around the teachers' lounge one day to see if he could find anything.

Still, it felt too much like ignoring John's instructions not to get distracted by making friends. Being able to do something concrete for the case would go a long way towards getting rid of that itch.

Then John's mouth firmed into a frown again and he shook his head. "No, Dean."

Sam had been staying out of it, pretending to do his homework without moving his pen at all for the last five minutes, but at that he slumped and started scratching angrily at the paper. For all his moody protests, Sam missed their dad when he got wrapped up in a hunt. Sammy's disappointment twisted Dean's chest into a knot even more than John's rejection of his help, and he had to do something to fix it.

"Dad," he said more softly, nodding his head sideways at Sam. Following the direction, John looked over and saw his younger son working furiously, his face furrowed into his awkward adolescent stage of upset. A few years earlier, it would have been a pout; aged a little more, it would settle into a scowl.

John rolled his eyes a little, but relented. "All right."

Dean grinned, his back straightening to relieve an ache he hadn't even noticed until the tension was gone. Sam still didn't acknowledge the conversation, but his writing slowed and his back relaxed out of its hunch a little, too.

John fixed Dean with a hard look. "But you don't leave Fred's side for a second, you do exactly what he says, and you call me if anything out of the ordinary happens."

"Yes, sir!" Dean just about raced over to his duffle bag, digging through his clothes—always packed after laundry day in case they had to leave in a hurry—to pull out the supplies he'd need. As he slid his boot knife into place against his right ankle, John's hand descended on his shoulder. He paused and looked up.

"I mean it, Dean. No getting smart or trying to be the hero here. Fred's running the show, you're backup."

Dean met his searching gaze, trying hard to make John understand how seriously he was taking his responsibilities. "I know, Dad. I got this, I promise."

"Good." John squeezed his shoulder once, reassurance or approval, Dean wasn't sure, then stepped back. "I'll let Fred know about the change of plans, have him pick you up here."

Tucking his gun—still just a 9mm, even though he could easily handle the recoil of a .45—into the back of his jeans and flipping his shirt to cover it, Dean nodded.

Their patrol that night was a total bust. Fred drove them around neighborhood after neighborhood, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but Dean got back to the motel just before dawn with nothing to report. It annoyed him, but he still felt good about having done something.

Until they got a look at the morning paper when they sat down for a very late breakfast several hours later.

"Damn!" John tossed down the page announcing another suspicious burglary in a nearby town that Dean and Fred hadn't even passed through on their nightly round. "We're chasing our goddamn tails on this one." He waved down the waitress for a check, even though their food had just arrived.

"Come on," he said as he pulled out his wallet. "I gotta drop you boys off so Fred and I can get out there before the locals ruin the whole scene."

Dean shovelled his hashbrowns down his throat in a matter of seconds, grinning at Sam with a mouthful of potatoes when he said, "You're so disgusting, I can't believe we're related."

Seeing as Sam left an entire waffle covered in whipped cream and strawberry syrup on the plate when he got up, Dean had his own doubts about that.

* * *

John returned later than Dean had expected that night, looking tired but also more hopeful than he had for weeks. He didn't say anything as he stripped off his jacket and boots and collapsed in one of the ancient chairs, though he did grunt out a thanks when Sam brought over a bowl of lukewarm chicken soup and a beer.

Sam and Dean let him eat in peace, but he'd barely finished when Sam blurted out, no longer able to contain the question, "You found something?"

John swallowed his gulp of beer before nodding and grinning at them. "Hex bags."

Sam actually looked disappointed. "A witch? That's all?"

"That's all," John confirmed. "Nothing new and inexplicable, just some human dirtbag with a grudge being weird about it. We cleared the house out. Fred's sitting on it for now, I'm heading out again in a bit."

"But there weren't any hex bags at the other houses, right?" Dean asked, leaving the rest of the dishes in the sink to drop into the chair opposite. "You never said anything about them."

"Didn't find any." John finished his beer and set it down. He looked at the bottle a he thought, turning it on its edge as he spun the neck between his fingers. "We haven't been able to look at any of the abduction scenes between the break-in and the families getting taken, though. We've seen those houses after, and ones that so far haven't had anyone go missing. It's possible she's cleaning them up after."

"Do you know it's a woman, or are you just assuming? Because you know, it's just as likely—"

"Yeah, yeah. Point taken, kid." John reached up and ruffled Sam's hair, grinning when Sam pulled away and tried to smooth it back into place. "We're gonna watch the house the next couple nights, see if _he or she_ comes back to try anything."

* * *

"Shouldn't have moved the damned hex bags. What was I thinking? Of course it scared 'em off."

John sat on the bed, his elbows propped on his leg and his face hidden in his hands. There had been no movement at that house and no other events that had been reported for the better part of a fortnight. It wasn't like John to give up on a hunt—over a decade later, they were still looking for the thing that had killed Mary—but he was obviously losing his patience with this one.

Even Sam, usually the first to complain about their inability to stick around in one place for any significant length of time, was getting antsy and wanted to leave. He never said as much, especially to John—he wouldn't risk it being used against him the next time they fought over hunting—but every day Dean was treated to a new complaint about the school or the motel or the town in general.

It all made Dean feel guilty as hell. He was actually enjoying their time in Nowheresville, despite what he'd told Cas during the first of their many conversations. He knew those, and Cas himself, were a large part of why he was so happy to be hanging around in an otherwise useless little dump of semi-rural South Dakota.

He liked Cas. He was just as smart as Sammy but about a million times less annoying and whiny. Dean's initial impression that he was always serious and mature was pretty close to accurate—Cas had seen a lot more crap than most kids their age, with Dean being an obvious exception—but he appreciated Dean's jokes when he actually understood them, and his own sense of humor was as dry and occasionally morbid as John's.

Despite being sure Cas would get along well with his family, though, Dean never invited him back to the motel or made plans to see him on the weekends. He knew his friendship with Cas wasn't getting in the way of the hunt, which would be stalled even if he ate by himself at lunch and never sat in the back corner in history letting Cas take notes for both of them while he copied Cas's math homework. But especially with John so frustrated and Sam so anxious already, it didn't seem like a good idea to flaunt his social life, such as it was.

So instead, he tried to cheer them up. It was always a challenge, since Sam took it as a point of pride to hate anything John enjoyed, but that just meant that sometimes they had to take turns. This was John's night.

He nudged his dad's shoulder. "If that's true, and they're not coming back because you cleaned out the hex bags, it means that you saved the family they were going to go after. Right?"

Of course, John wasn't that easy to console.

"If we'd kept on the house without moving them, we could have caught them there. And for all we know they've already skipped town. So we won't have a chance of tracking them down until it starts hitting the papers somewhere else, if it even does. Which means we probably have to wait for at least one more family to die that didn't have to."

Dean couldn't argue that they didn't know the families were dead. Even his most cheerful fake optimism knew there wasn't likely to be another explanation for a bunch of people vanishing, especially if a witch was involved. Fortunately, he had the next attempt at distraction at the ready to change the subject.

"Sammy and I haven't been able to practice our skills much, since you've had to be out a lot," he pointed out, ignoring Sam's glare as John dropped his hands to consider the statement. "If nothing's happening anyway..."

"Yeah." John stood, purpose and confidence returned. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Good work keeping on top of things, Dean. That's exactly what I need from you right now."

John drove them out to an abandoned pasture and drilled them until Dean couldn't feel his arms, but neither that nor Sam 'accidentally' kicking him in the face the one and only time he successfully got Dean on the ground was enough to ruin his sense of accomplishment.

* * *

The next morning, he was tired and sore and still grinning when he slung himself into the chair beside Cas just before class. His friend, on the other hand, quickly lost his smile as he saw Dean.

"What?" Dean asked. Cas gestured to his own chin and Dean remembered the bruise, which barely hurt, and how it must look—especially to Cas. "Oh, no, it's fine. Just wrestling with my little brother, you know?"

Cas didn't look at all like he knew, but he still nodded and let it drop for the moment. His concern returned later, as they ate lunch in the library. Or, more accurately, as Dean ate lunch and Cas alternated staring at him and at an Encyclopædia Britannica that must have been a few years out of date at best. Volume twenty-four: Metaphysics through Norway.

When Cas again shifted his gaze from the book to Dean, Dean surprised him with a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in front of his face. Cas pulled his head back, startled.

"Come on, dude. I don't think I've ever seen you actually eat lunch at lunch. You can't survive on nerdiness alone."

Getting that soft, almost reluctant laugh out of Cas was one of Dean's favorite parts of the day. "Maybe not, but I have survived this long on large breakfasts."

Dean snorted and took another large bite of sandwich while Cas's smile faded to a frown as he studied Dean. Around a mouthful of bread and peanut butter, Dean asked, "Wha?"

"How is your father's job hunt going?" Cas's voice was firm and solemn, even for him.

Swallowing thickly, Dean shrugged. "Not great. He's still following up on some things."

Usually, any kids curious enough to ask about John got too uncomfortable to push for more when Dean suggested they might be having money trouble, but Cas just got more thoughtful. Slowly, he said, "That must be frustrating for him."

As soon as Dean realized where Cas was going with that, he hurried to put a stop to it. They'd been through probing questions from concerned teachers and nosy parents, even dodged a few well-meaning but misguided social workers. With the hunt already as problematic as it was, they couldn't afford the time and effort needed to deal with another incident like that. Plus, he didn't want Cas to worry—especially if it ran the risk of bringing up his own bad memories.

"It's not like that, I promise. Sammy and I just got a little carried away with the roughhousing. Dad'd never do that."

Cas nodded, but his troubled expression didn't fade and Dean felt guilty over it for the rest of the day.

* * *

Then came the day when John was gone all night and late into the next afternoon. Sam and Dean, waiting with badly hidden anxiety on a day off from school, jumped up and abandoned their card game when they heard the Impala finally rumble into the parking lot. John opened the door, dirty, bloody, and grinning in triumph.

"It's done. I'm going to shower," he told them, dropping into a chair to unlace his boots, "then I want to be on the road by five. Bobby's got a line on a rugaru up in New York."

Sam bounced up and down like a kid in a candy store. "What happened? Come on, it's gotta be a good story. How did you find the witch?"

As John launched into an explanation of finding a creep trying to get back into one of the houses, Dean barely listened, too caught up in his own shocked thoughts. He'd known this was coming. That was how it always went. The hunt ended, they left. It wasn't usually a problem.

He hated that it was this time. The thought of never seeing Cas again started an ache in his chest, made sharper when he pictured Cas showing up to school Monday and not knowing why he wasn't there. Waiting a few more days before finally accepting that Dean had left, wasn't coming back, hadn't bothered to say goodbye. That Cas was well and truly alone now.

The idea of Cas's unhappiness was almost as intolerable as Sam's.

"Dean?"

Sam and John were looking at him. He'd missed the end of their conversation and had to stall for time to come up with a plan.

"You're sure it was the right guy?"

John's look was a mix of impatience and annoyance as he said, "You think that not only is there more than one witch in this population of, what, two hundred people at best, but that the second one just happened to be lurking around there?"

"I mean, aren't there usually covens or something? What if he wasn't working alone?"

"I know what I'm doing. We checked his car, his house, there's no sign of anyone else being involved. _If_ something else happens, Fred is here and should be able to handle it alone now that he knows what's going on. We've spent too long on this one already."

He could see John's exhaustion, but the image of Cas sitting alone in the library made him keep pressing. "There could still be more going on! We should stay until we know—"

"Dean, stop." John stood, waving off any further arguments as he made his way to the bathroom. "Whatever's up with you, especially if it's about some girl, get over it in the next ten minutes because I don't want to hear anything else."

He shut the bathroom door and the shower started up shortly after, leaving Dean and Sam standing in silence. After a moment, Dean began shoving the few belongings that weren't already packed into his duffle, haphazard and upset. He could feel Sam watching him, but he didn't acknowledge it as he systematically removed the scant evidence of the last three months of his life from the room.

It was done in a minute or two. Sam had only just started his own packing when Dean headed for the exit.

"Dean?" His voice wavered a little. "What are you doing?"

Dean felt a twinge. He was freaking Sam out with his abnormal reaction to their leaving, he knew that, but he could smooth it over later. He'd have hours as they drove to New York, days while John hunted down the creature. This was his only chance to try and fix things with Cas.

"I'll be back soon," he said and slipped out without looking back. He hovered on the other side of the door, waiting to see if Sam followed or alerted John, but he didn't hear anything.

The walk to the high school took about fifteen minutes. He wished he knew where Cas lived, but it wasn't something that had come up before. He'd have liked to say goodbye in person, but even having the address, he would have been able to send a letter or a postcard from wherever they ended up. As it was, his plan was to leave a note in the library—he'd never seen anyone else spend time there unless it was for class, and he was pretty sure he could hide it where Cas was likely to find it.

He could explain that they'd had to leave unexpectedly and ask Cas to write to him at Bobby's. Dean might not get the letter immediately, but they usually swung by Bobby's every few months. It was the best option he had.

He skirted around the main entrance even though the school was deserted, instead scaling the back fence and going straight for one of the library windows. Like the rest of the building, they were well-maintained but old; he had enough wiggle room to slip a wire under the sash and work at the latch.

He'd just about caught it when a rough hand clamped on his shoulder and yanked him back, dragging him around and to his feet. Wondering how they'd found him and inwardly cursing himself for being too focused to hear the car pulling up or the man walking up behind him, Dean squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and met John's furious expression with one of defiance.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John thundered. He shifted his grip to fasten in the sturdy fabric of Dean's shirt and began to haul him away. Dean tried to twist away, digging his feet in, but John was bigger and stronger and very, very mad.

"I just need five minutes!" Dean pleaded as they staggered towards the parking lot.

John shoved him against the brick exterior of the school, one hand still unforgiving on Dean's shoulder as the other jabbed inches away from Dean's face.

"You just need to shut up and get your ass in the car. Do you have any idea how much you scared your brother? How worried I was?"

"Dad—"

"I don't know why I bothered, I should have known you were just being stupid and selfish. I swear, Dean, next time I'm just leaving. You and your fuckups are on your own after this."

It hurt like a punch to the gut and left Dean just as breathless.

"Please, Dad, I just—"

"I don't want to hear it. In the car, now." John released him with a final shove towards the Impala.

Sam waited nervously in the back, his eyes wide as Dean reached for the rear door, but John pushed it shut and opened the front passenger door instead.

"Where I can see you," he said gruffly.

With the last of his courage as John put the keys in the ignition, Dean went for the Hail Mary.

"I'm sorry. I know I messed up. But we're already here, can I just finish what I was doing?"

John stilled. His face was still tight with anger, but he took a deep breath and asked, "Which was what?"

"You know that kid you asked me to check out, Castiel Novak?"

"That was nearly three months ago and you told me he wasn't involved. What's he got to do with anything?"

"We kinda got to know each other," Dean admitted. "I didn't want him to think something bad had happened when I didn't show up. I just want to leave him a note."

"And say what, Dean?" John started the car, cutting Dean off before he could answer. "It's better to just make a clean break. If he worries, he worries, but he'll get over it. That's not your problem."

To his horror, Dean felt his eyes start to sting as a scratch caught in his throat. Turning his face to the window and blinking it down as best he could, he said quietly, "He's my friend."

There was something softer than anger roughing up John's voice when he answered, but Dean was too upset to want to hear it. "I know it's tough, kid. But who we are, what we do? We can't have friends. We've got each other and that's it."


	2. NOW

Just shy of midnight, Dean's phone startled him out of a doze where he'd pulled over just off I-40 in Glenrio. He didn't recognize the number or the area code.

"Yeah," he answered, voice gruff with sleep and about two days of disuse.

The other end of the line was silent long enough for Dean to grow impatient, but before he could repeat himself or hang up, someone finally coughed and spoke. It was a familiar voice, one so unexpected that it set his heart racing up his throat. "Hey, Dean."

"Sammy?" His voice caught incredulously. He hadn't heard from his little brother in years; having him call when Dean was on the way to Palo Alto to get his help was as eerie as it was surprising.

"Yeah. It's, uh, it's me. Hi."

"Hi," Dean echoed. "What's—what's up? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, no, I just—How are you, Dean? It's been, well, it's been a while."

It had been a while, but Dean still recognized Sam's guilty, lying, trying-to-hide-something voice as well as ever. "Don't bullshit me, Sam. What's wrong?"

Sam sighed. "There's... there's something weird going around my neighborhood. Something I think I remember happening before, when we were kids. Can you and Dad—do you think maybe you could come take a look?"

"Seriously?" Dean couldn't hold back his anger. "You walk out on us, you don't even call me for two years, but as soon as 'something weird' is going on, it's just great to have a hunter on speed dial, huh?"

"Dean, I—"

"No. You know what? Whatever. It's fine. I'll be there tonight."

"Dean..."

"Later, Sammy."

Dean shut the phone and threw it across the seat. It bounced off the door and landed in the footwell before it took up ringing and buzzing again. He ignored it, starting up the Impala and pulling back onto the highway.

* * *

Sam looked nervous when he opened the door nearly a full day later. That seemed fair, since Dean was still pissed, but it was hard to hold on to the anger when Sammy was right there in front of him, finally.

Then Sam peered past him, asking, "Where's Dad?" and his annoyance spiked again. That was what they should have been talking about, but that was Dean's problem; they could deal with Sam's first.

"Not coming." Sam's face crumpled instantly, and Dean could have kicked himself. "No, Sammy, I don't mean like that. He's just on another job right now, I couldn't get a hold of him right away. You know he would've come."

"Yeah, sure." Sam didn't sound convinced, but before Dean could say anything else, Sam turned and motioned him inside. Dean followed, then stopped short just inside the living room area. A woman stood from the couch as he walked in, dressed in a nurse's outfit that seemed more like vinyl than anything that would be used in a hospital, though it certainly looked good on her.

"Well, hi there. Sammy, you didn't mention you had company." The chastising glare that Dean shot his brother covered both the unspeakable rudeness of letting someone interrupt a kinky booty call and the annoyance of accepting—or making—such a call when he knew Dean would be arriving to talk about things not fit for public consumption.

The woman smiled, but her eyes remained sharp and suspicious. "I live here. You must be Dean."

"Must be," Dean agreed warily.

Sam finally cut in. "Yeah. Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jess. Jess, I'm just gonna show Dean up to the guest room and get him settled, okay? Go on back to bed."

Jess's cheer was still entirely fake as she offered, "I don't mind, I'll come with you!"

With a grimace, Sam huddled close to Jess, blocking her from Dean's view, and exchanged a few tense whispers. Dean's name was hissed at least once, and something that sounded like "using you," but then Sam's voice grew stronger as he interrupted, "It's not like that! I asked him to come, okay? I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but he's here because I called him."

As far as Dean could tell, Jess didn't say anything else before she left the room, but she didn't look any happier. Sam turned back to him with an apologetic expression that failed to soothe Dean's offense.

"Nice, Sam. Never met your girlfriend, didn't know you had a girlfriend, and she hates me. What the hell have you been telling her?"

Sam reached for Dean's duffle bag, and after a brief tug-of-war Dean relinquished it with bad grace and followed Sam to the closet that passed for a guest room in their student digs. At least it had a futon.

"It's more that I haven't talked about much," he said, setting the bag on the mattress and sitting beside it to look up at Dean imploringly. "I don't like lying about my past, so I just don't say anything. So you showing up... It's my fault, I should have talked to her sooner. I promise I'll fix it, though. Dean..."

Sam gave Dean his most heart-wrenching puppydog eyes, and it was a struggle for him to keep scowling.

"I really am glad you're here," he finished softly. "Thanks for coming. I missed you."

"Whatever, dude." Dean shoved at Sam's ridiculous mane, ostensibly to make room for himself on the futon but more honestly to keep himself from getting choked up. "You too, I guess. Fill me in on your weird crap already."

"Okay, so you remember those missing families in South Dakota? We were there for almost three months while Dad worked it, then it turned out to be a witch."

Dean didn't have to try hard to bring back the details; it was the longest they'd all spent in one place that wasn't Bobby's. "Yeah, with the break-ins beforehand."

"Salt trails, ruined photographs? We've had three of those around here in the past week."

"Huh." Dean considered for a moment. "No one missing yet?"

"No. I was hoping you'd be able to stop it before it got to that point."

"Oh no. Nuh uh." Dean pointed an accusatory finger right in Sam's face. "This started with you, you're working it with me. I know it's been a while, but you can't tell me you've totally lost your game. It took Dad and two other guys three months to find the witch last time. I'm good, and knowing what we're up against makes it easier, but I'm not doing this one alone."

Sam's mouth twisted, almost ready to argue, but he gave in as Dean stared him down. "All right, but just this once. I'm done hunting, Dean. And Jess doesn't find out."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean stood and stretched, then started unbuttoning his shirt. It may have been years, but he didn't see any reason to start being shy around Sam now after a childhood spent sharing rooms and sometimes beds. "Go make up with your lady, I need to crash for a couple hours before we get started." As Sam left, he added, "But don't make up too loud, I don't need to hear that!"

* * *

Sam flipped him off, but he was obviously laughing.

Breakfast the next morning proved a lot more amiable than Dean's arrival. Jess didn't apologize, but she smiled sincerely and made pancakes, so everything was all right in Dean's books. Then she left, declaring they had some "brotherly bonding" to do and she'd be at the library if they needed her.

"She's so out of your league," Dean said as they watched her go.

Sam's voice was a mixture of pride and wistfulness as he answered, "I know."

Shaking the mood, Dean shoved the last quarter of a pancake in his mouth at once and enjoyed it almost as much as the disgust that crossed Sam's face. "Let's go," he urged before he'd completely finished chewing. "I've got a monkey suit that probably fits you, we should hit up the crime scenes and see if we can find any hex bags."

They didn't find any hex bags, bones, blood glyphs, or anything else that could point them towards the witch. They did find that only one of the three targeted residences held a family with a kid, though: Grace and Colin Steck, with their six-year-old daughter Carey.

"We should have kept electronic copies," Grace said, paging through a stack of washed-out photos. "I mean, that's half the point of digital cameras, right? You never know what could happen. But the old camera didn't hold very many, and I liked having them in albums we could look at together..."

"Mrs. Steck," Sam interrupted softly, "I know this is a hard thing to go through, and I'm sorry to make you feel even more unsafe in your own home, but we've seen burglaries matching this one before. The suspects sometimes use the initial break-in to set up for another entry. That's why we needed to look around and make sure they didn't leave anything behind."

"Have they left cameras before?" Colin asked, alarmed.

"We're not sure, but they definitely didn't this time. Since we don't know which night they might come back, Agent Hamill and I are going to hang around and keep an eye on you, okay? And if anything happens, anything at all unusual, give us a call."

Dean passed them each a card as he and Sam stood, only to be stopped by the girl standing stubbornly in front of them.

"Are you going to stop the bad men?" she demanded.

Dean knelt down to her level, expression serious. "We sure are, sweetheart. You and your parents are gonna be safe, so you don't have to worry."

Back in the Impala, Sam let out a derisive huff.

"What?"

Sam gave him a long look before turning to glare out the passenger side window. "So what exactly is the cutoff age for lying to kids to make them feel better?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Forget it," Sam sighed. "You'd just take his side."

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel, guiding the car into traffic. "This about Dad?"

"I don't want to do this right now, Dean. I'm sorry I brought it up. Can we just—wait, wait, stop!" Dean pulled over, startled at the abrupt change in tone, and followed Sam's gaze. A figure in a hooded sweatshirt stood at the end of the Stecks' block, staring down the street at their house. "He was at the last place, too."

"Think it's our witch?"

The person started walking away, and Dean hit Sam's arm with the back of his hand. "Come on," he said, opening his door quietly. "Let's follow him."

They did, leapfrogging the lead position every now and then to be less conspicuous and trying to balance keeping back with not losing him on the semi-busy sidewalks. Before long he turned into the entrance of a small, rundown apartment building. Loitering on the other side of the street, the Winchesters caught sight of him in one of the windows on the second floor, hood still up in the brief moments before he disappeared on the other side.

"You're sure it was the same guy?" Dean asked after there was no movement for several minutes.

"Same clothes, same height, same build."

"All right. Can you keep an eye out here? I'm gonna go change and see if I can talk my way into the building. Gimme a call if he leaves, but don't try to go after him on your own. You're rusty and he might be our witch."

"Yeah, all right." Sam waved him away. "Go slip into something more comfortable."

It took nearly twenty minutes for Dean to backtrack to the Impala, change without flashing too many innocent passersby, and make his way back to the storefront where Sam was casually inspecting used books.

"Anything?"

"Unless he went out the back, no. You sure you're okay going in by yourself?"

Dean grinned at him. "I've been doing this on my own for a while now, Sammy. Don't worry your pretty little head." He was across the street before Sam could finish wrinkling his nose in a judgemental grimace and retort.

He prepared a disgustingly romantic story about a surprise proposal, ready to plead his case with tears and everything, and so was pleasantly surprised when the first apartment he picked on the directory—1B _J Smythe_ —buzzed him in without a word. He checked down the first floor hallway just to get the layout down; if the second floor had the same design, their suspect was in 2C. Since there was only one stairwell that Dean could see, there was no chance of the guy sneaking by him.

No one else passed him on the stairs or in the corridor, either. He hesitated outside the door to 2C, listening for any signs of activity from inside, but apparently the building was soundproofed better than Sam's because he was caught by surprise when the door opened and he found himself face to face with the man in the maroon hoodie they'd been tracking.

His hood was down, revealing a ruffled nest of dark hair, a smooth-shaven jaw with a noticeable dimple, blue eyes framed by furrowed brows, and lips parted in puzzlement as he stared at Dean.

Maybe Dean wouldn't have recognized him as quickly if the case hadn't brought his memories of school in South Dakota to mind; maybe he still would have, because Castiel was one of the few kids he ever really considered a friend in their transient life. Seeing him again was a shock, particularly under the similar circumstances.

"Can I help you with something?" Cas asked once long moments had passed in silence. His voice was deeper, almost a growl to it—like the boy he'd been had smoked a few hundred packs of cigarettes in the intervening time.

He didn't seem to know who Dean was, which was hardly surprising. It had been a decade before, and only for a few months when his life was already in the middle of a big transition, and Dean had left without a word. Still, it hurt, just a bit, not to be remembered.

Cas was still staring at him. He'd asked a question, and Dean probably couldn't have been any more conspicuous about standing there like a moron if he'd tried. He pulled out his most charming fake smile, the one that got him hospital records that should have been confidential and the phone numbers of a dozen waitstaff in truck stop diners, and shook his head.

"No, uh, sorry. I must have the wrong apartment. Sorry to bug you."

He could feel Cas staring after him as retreated. He shuffled down the stairs a bit faster than looked completely innocent, but at least he was hidden from sight by the turn of the hallway. But it was impossible not to picture that intense, puzzled look he'd seen so often during their brief friendship, Cas's brows furrowed and his mouth pursed in confusion. It had looked just the same on the grown man as it had on the boy, and the uneasy feeling of being studied followed him all the way across the street to Sam.

"Is he watching?" Dean asked softly as he walked past his brother, picking up a book and flipping it over to look at the back.

Sam glanced up a few seconds later, then checked his watch and the surrounding street. It was a pretty good move for someone who had sworn off the whole business.

"Windows are clear. What happened?"

Dean shoved his book back in a random empty spot on the shelf. "Nothing. Come on."

When Sam hesitated, Dean grabbed his book too and tossed it into the bargain bin near the door.

"Hey, that's not where—"

"Don't care. Come on."

Sam followed as instructed, clearly not happy about it, but he had the sense to wait until they were back in the car before he started in on Dean.

"What's going on? You wanted me to work this with you, Dean, you can't just—"

Dean groaned, thumping his head against the steering wheel as they waited for a light. "Calm down, Samantha. Nothing happened, I just didn't want to seem creepier than I already did by meeting a suit after stalking the guy at home."

Sam kept frowning at him, but Dean kept driving.

Sam, predictably, broke first. "And? Who is he, how is he involved, are we going back tonight... What's the deal?"

If Dean explained about Cas, Sam would get suspicious and argumentative and act like it meant something. Dean was in a bad enough mood already; seeing Cas had dragged up not only an unexpected pain from him not recognizing Dean, but also Dean's old anger at John for the way they'd been forced to end things, and his resentment towards the harsh reality John had made him face: he didn't get friendships, not as a kid and not as an adult.

He had John and he had Sam and that was enough. Keeping his discontent contained had been how he'd kept them both, as long as that had lasted, and now that he was getting Sam back—and they'd get John, too, as soon as this was done—he just had to bury those small hurts again.

"No deal."

Sam snorted disbelievingly. "Dean, you ran outta there like there was a vamp after you. Something must have happened."

"I just wanted to get back to following useful leads. He's not involved."

"How can you be so sure?" Sam demanded.

Dean pulled into the lot before answering, and they found Jess just at the base of the stairs. She waited as they parked, and Dean offered Sam a small, helpless gesture before getting out without addressing the question.

* * *

After a dinner so good that Dean had to point out yet again how Jess was really settling with Sam, they floated the idea of a night out—more sibling reconnection. Dean had worried that Jess would resent being left out, but she was thrilled. While Sam was in the bathroom, she surprised him with a tight hug.

"Thank you for being here for him," she said softly as she released him.

"Well, yeah." He hid his awkwardness at the unexpected sincerity behind a lopsided grin. "Gotta look out for my helpless baby brother, right?"

"Oh, shut up," Sam complained as he returned. "Let's go before I change my mind and kick you out."

Bidding Jess farewell, they drove away in the direction of downtown for a few blocks, then turned back on a different road to head towards the Stecks' house.

"You never told me why you're so sure the guy who was skulking around the scenes very suspiciously isn't involved, you know," Sam finally said after Dean pretended not to notice his pointed stares for over a minute.

"Turns out it was a guy I kinda know."

"Oh!" Sam sounded pleased. "A hunter? That's great, we can—"

"Not exactly a hunter," Dean interrupted before Sam could get too excited. "Just a civilian I've met before."

"Dean! You don't meet people. You hunt. IF you've run into him and he's not a hunter, chances are good he's the witch! You know it could be anyone, right?"

"Not this one," Dean insisted.

"You can't know that!" Sam's voice raised in a frustrated whine, just as grating as it had been the last time Dean had heard it. It was the default tone for when Sam was being a stubborn know-it-all, and it always put Dean's hackles up.

"In this case I can. Look, we decided it has to be the same person as last time, right?"

"Or someone involved last time," Sam pointed out.

"Right, well, he was a kid then."

"So were we!"

"And he wasn't involved."

"Again, how do you know that?"

"Because I checked into it at the time, okay?" Dean finally admitted. "He was at the school, we were... kinda friends."

"Oh my God," Sam said, judgement and realization fighting for supremacy as he threw his hands up like Dean was being unreasonable. "Are you talking about that weird loner Dad had you look at _as a suspect_?"

"He was only a little weird, and yeah, Dad had me check him out but it wasn't him!"

"No, Dean, no way. It obviously wasn't just the witch Dad thought it was, either, and this guy was in both places when it started!"

"It could just be a coincidence."

"Hell of a coincidence."

"Says the guy who was also in both places."

"Yeah, because we were on a hunt!"

Dean pulled up to the Stecks' house and cursed, silencing the rest of Sam's arguments. The glossy black door gaped open, flung wide enough to reveal the entry hallway in its entirety, and light spilled out across the porch in the early evening dimness. It glinted off the large puddle of water that pooled near the doorway and spilled inside, and Dean and Sam exchanged a look as they drew their weapons.

"Dinner disaster?" Sam suggested quietly, but his voice was grim.

Dean eased into the house first, checking for anyone or anything before nodding Sam in. Water spread across the floor, briney streaks that looked like trails of movement. The walls were splattered with wet splotches, some still dripping.

Dean pointed at one of the patches, three droplets still making their way to the floor from it, and whispered, "Might still be here."

As if to prove his point, a commotion started up above them: a brief shriek, at least two pairs of feet scuffling, something heavy hitting the floor. The screaming cut off abruptly as they reached the base of the stairs, and they exchanged a worried look before Dean motioned for Sam to stay behind him.

Gun raised, he edged up the stairs silently, sparing a brief moment of gratitude for whatever carpenter had built the solid, unsqueaky treads. The upstairs hallway was clear, but he could see a trail of wetness glistening against the hardwood in the light spilling out of one of the rooms. It led all the way to the far end of the house, what they'd figured was the youngest girl's room, and Dean mouthed a curse as he sped up.

He registered two man-sized shapes as he rushed through the open door and instinctively aimed at the one not motionless on the ground. He took in the scene between breaths:

Figure one, on the floor, looked human—dark hair, blue eyes, unremarkable features; naked, with two arms and two legs and Dean couldn't see what in between from that angle—except for the blue-green tinge of its skin, some finger-length tentacles sprouting from its shoulders above the normal arms, and its head being nearly perpendicular to the rest of its body. Either that last part was normal for whatever it was, or that was the reason it wasn't reacting to his presence at all.

Figure two, also humanoid but clothed, clutched something large to its chest and turned its back on him, hunching in a protective posture around whatever it held. It too had dark hair, and stood in a puddle of something pale but not clear that covered most of the floor.

Carey wasn't in her bed.

"Put her down and step away, you've got two seconds!" Dean moved further into the room as he yelled, feeling Sam fill the doorway behind him.

"Don't!" sobbed a little voice that Dean recognized as Carey's. "Please don't hurt him!"

"Carey?" Dean called more gently, gun never wavering. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

The figure—Dean still couldn't be sure if it was human—lifted its head at a puzzled angle. Its back was still to them, but he could see a slice of its face in profile and it looked within the acceptable range of flesh tones. The skin at the back of its neck, exposed by its tilted head, was another matter entirely.

"Dean?" it asked in a low, tentative voice; masculine, if not male.

Dean didn't like that it recognized him, because he didn't like being on a one-sided first name basis with supernatural anythings as a matter of principle, but there were bigger issues than introductions to take care of currently. "Let her go," he demanded again.

It stooped down, apparently obeying, but stayed bent low to the ground. "You have to let go now," Dean heard it murmur gravely.

"No! They don't know you're a good monster."

"We do now," Sam reassured her. "You just told us. So no one's gonna hurt anyone, since we're all good here, right? Dean's going to put down the gun—"

"No, he sure as hell ain't," Dean interrupted in a hiss that he hoped she couldn't hear over her continued sniffles. "We don't know what that thing is or what it wants with her."

"Whatever it is, it hasn't hurt her. Look around, Dean." Dean didn't dare take his eyes off it, but he could easily picture the judgemental grimace Sam would be wearing. " _She_ didn't kill that other thing, and she says it's a good monster. So how about we don't traumatize her any further for the time being?

"Dean's putting down the gun," he repeated loudly before Dean could argue any more, "and then why don't you come over here and talk to me while he talks to your good monster, okay?"

Carey sniffed. "Promise?"

Gritting his teeth, Dean stuck his pistol in his waistband and darted a glare back at Sam that he hoped communicated just how much they were going to talk—yell—about this later. Sam just raised his eyebrows encouragingly. "Promise," Dean agreed grudgingly.

The thing straightened as Carey released her grip and ran over to Sam, who was at least smart enough to say, "Let's go get you a drink, hm? Are you hungry?" and lead her away.

"I am not above lying to a little girl if it means getting her away from the thing that killed her family," was the first thing Dean said once they were out of earshot. He had his gun back out before he was done talking.

"Her parents are alive," it told him, still turned away so he couldn't see anything but a long coat. "The ritual can't begin if they don't have the whole family. I can take you to where they are."

There was something about its voice that pinged an alarm in the back of Dean's head, but he couldn't narrow it down. It definitely didn't help the bad feeling he already had about the whole situation.

"Uh-huh. And I should believe you why, exactly?"

"Because ten years ago in South Dakota, John Winchester thought he killed the witch that was responsible for kidnapping and murdering five families, including eight children."

"How do you know that?" Dean's finger slipped inside the trigger guard, but he disarm the safety; not yet. "What are you?"

"That witch didn't kill them, though. He was partially responsible, because he cast the spell that summoned and anchored the guilty creatures to the lake nearby. It was salt water, rare in an inland lake, but their magic can't function in fresh water. So it was his fault those particular people were used, but if not for his interference, the creatures only would have done it elsewhere. Once he died, they were able to return to the ocean waters they prefer."

"Yeah, history lesson can wait. Turn around and tell me what the hell you are, or I'll just have to see how well your kind copes with a silver bullet in the skull and go from there."

"Please let me explain first," it said, and its sadness sounded so human. "I'm not like them, I was trying to stop it. Even back then—"

"Turn around!"

Sam and Carey probably heard him downstairs, but that didn't matter as much as that the thing heard him clicking off the safety in the silence that followed. From the flinch of its shoulders, it had.

"All right," it said, "Just, please—"

"Now!"

Seaweed skin caught Dean's eyes first as it slowly rotated towards him, very blue hands half-raised in surrender. Most of its body was covered, if not by the trench coat then by the dark shirt and jeans underneath, but a hole had been ripped over the left side of its chest—where a human heart would be, Dean noted—and dark skin contrasted with a few blue-violet tendrils poking tentatively around the edge of the torn cloth. He stared at them in morbid fascination, twitching his eyes to the body on the floor to compare. The dead one's were more green than blue, as lifeless and limp as the rest of it, and reminded Dean of the sea anemones Sam had spent half an hour poking at the one time he'd convinced John to take them to an aquarium.

The creature finally faced him and Dean stopped pondering the tentacles long enough to look up. He almost wished he hadn't.

"Cas?"

It was him, but it wasn't. Castiel's skin was lightly tanned, and this thing was in some places, but not enough. In addition to the color of his exposed chest, there was a smudge across his cheek that looked like the other creature's—a cross between a turtle and a blueberry. Cas definitely didn't have little tentacles growing off of him. But it must have been him, because those eyes, shining blue and full of regret and resignation, those were Cas's.

"Cas?" he repeated, because he had to be sure. His voice came out rougher than he would have liked, but it still made the creature—Cas, it was definitely Cas—wince and shrink in on himself.

"Please, Dean, I can explain." Cas's voice, which Dean now recognized as what had been setting off the warning, sounded ragged and broken as he begged.

Dean didn't want to hear it.

"God _damn_ it. Sam!" he yelled, not taking his eyes off Cas.

"Dean?" Sam bellowed back from below. Dean could hear the barely contained freakout in it.

It only took seconds for Sam rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time as far as Dean could tell from the pattern of loud thuds. Sam burst in and halted just behind Dean, his own gun out and hovering beside Dean's shoulder.

"Dean?" he asked again, calmer this time but still uncertain.

"Sammy." Dean kept his gaze and weapon trained on Cas, as unwavering as his voice as he said, "You remember we were talking about Castiel?"

To his credit, Sam's response contained no gloating or vindictiveness about being right. He just made a vaguely agreeable noise and let Dean keep control of the conversation. It didn't mean Dean wasn't expecting him to bring it up later, when they'd sorted the whole thing out and gotten back to his apartment, in an extremely smug example of how he wasn't all that rusty at hunting after all.

That was fine. Dean would use that to lead into how they needed to find and possibly save John from whatever he'd gotten himself into this time. Using his bragging against him would be even better leverage for getting Sammy to come along.

Before Dean could take advantage of Sam's surprising and helpful silence, however, Cas's blue-streaked face took on a look that would have been panic if he'd been human.

"Where is she?" he demanded, all trace of remorseful worry for his own safety gone.

"What?" Sam actually let hands dip in surprise, and Dean had to nudge his arm with an elbow to get them back up. His own aim stayed true. "Downstairs, she's—"

"You can't leave her alone. They're going to come back for her!"

He moved forward as though planning to push past both of them, silver bullets be damned, but stopped when Dean instantly adjusted to the new angle and protested, "Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Cas's glare sent cold shivers rippling down Dean's spine. His eyes were clearer blue than his natural skin color—and Dean remembered with sudden, angry clarity the exact shade of the mysteriously quickly appearing and disappearing bruise of their first real meeting. How Cas had twisted his suspicion into sympathy with his admission of being used to covering up to look normal. It filled Dean all the more with rage to realize it hadn't even been a lie, except in its glaring omission:

Cas wasn't, hadn't been good at using makeup because he had to hide signs of abuse. He used it to pretend to be a real person.

That rush of self-righteous fury was enough to ward off any further chill from Cas's oceanic scowl.

"I will still shoot the crap outta you if you move instead of telling me what you are and what you're doing here."

"Then stop talking and do it quickly!" Cas growled back, calling Dean's bluff with another step, then another. "And get back to Carey before the rest of them do, so that you can shoot them, too."

Cas stood an arm's length in front of Dean by the time he finished. Which meant Dean's gun, tracking him the whole way, ended up pressing a divot into his forehead. He had to feel the growing tremor in Dean's hands, only marginally related to the adrenaline spiking through him.

They stared each other down. Pushing past his own uncertainty—which in his head sounded a lot like John yelling at him for being indecisive in the face of evil—Dean saw that Cas's chest heaved with deep, rapid breaths and his pupils were large, dilated past what the room's light could justify. He put on a good show, but he was scared.

The smudge of blue on Cas's cheek was in the same place as the not-bruise Dean had left a decade ago and he had been Dean's friend and there was no chance Dean would ever be able to pull the trigger. He let the gun fall to his side, not missing the relief that flashed over Cas's face and relaxed his shoulders. Dean turned, tucking the weapon away, and didn't meet Sam's confused look as he pushed past him through the doorway.

"Come on, we should get back to Carey."

Carey, it turned out, had gotten back to them instead. Dean found her huddled in the hallway just outside, arms wrapped around her legs as she tried to muffle her sobs against her knee. He crouched down in front of her.

"Hey, kid," he said softly, but she raised her head and glared at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"You promised!" she accused. "You promised you'd stop the bad monsters and you promised you'd be nice to the good monster but you keep lying! I want my mommy and daddy back!" She started crying again and flung herself at Dean, despite having just finished yelling at him.

He held her close, flashing back to years of sharing motel beds with a little brother prone to nightmares, and shushed her gently. Meeting Sam's eyes as he rubbed Carey's back soothingly, he saw the same determination he felt to make things right.

According to Cas, her parents were still alive. It was time to follow up on that and save them. But it was too dangerous to take her along, and Cas had also said that others were likely to come back for her. They couldn't leave her here alone, either.

Dean carried Carey across to her parents' room, where there were no dead creatures or signs of a struggle, and sat down on the bed. As first Sam then Cas followed them into the bedroom, looking troubled, he eased her into sitting next to him instead of on his lap. He brushed her hair back and she sniffled.

"We're gonna get them back," he said when she looked up at him. It was another promise and she had no reason to believe him, because she was right: he'd let her down at every turn so far. He hadn't protected her parents, he hadn't protected her—if not for Cas, they might have been too late—and he'd given serious thought to shooting the one person who had kept her safe.

But her hopeful expression was an acceptance of his words and this time he would follow through.

As Carey wiped her cheeks and put on a brave face for them, Dean looked up at Sam and Cas.

"You can take me to where they are, right?" he asked Cas, who nodded. "What are we even dealing with here? What are—what are they?"

He'd almost said 'you,' and Cas knew it.

"We are cnaiads."

"Wait, naiads? Like, ancient Greek water nymphs?" Sam asked. "But I thought those were female. And less blue. Also, nothing in the lore suggests that they would be involved in—"

"Though we are the basis for the mythology, almost no details are accurate. We are not associated with rivers, our physiology is noticeably different, even the name is incorrect. Though the English pronunciation is more or less the same. Cnaiads. With a C." Sam stared at Cas, still bewildered, so he spelled it.

Abruptly, Sam's demeanor shifted from confusion to delighted interest. "C-N—like cnidarians? Jellyfish and anemones?"

"Yeah," Dean answered before Cas could, "sure, just like that. It's awesome and we all have tons of questions, but we got some more pressing matters first. Cas, how many, uh, cnaiads are we looking at here?"

Cas glanced at the wall between them and Carey's room, where they'd left the dead one, then turned back to Dean. "There are likely to be at least three others. It's possible there are more, but I would be very surprised to find fewer. They do not function as well in groups of less than four."

There had to be more background to the group thing than Cas's throwaway comment. He was a cnaiad, but as far as Dean knew, he'd always been alone. Even as a kid in South Dakota, looking for his family—and the half-truth of that was so obvious now that Dean remembered it—his only company had been Dean himself. But that train of thought also had to be put off for later.

"Right. Sam, you and Carey are going to hold down the fort here."

"What? Dean, you can't go after them by yourself!"

"He won't be alone."

Dean flashed Cas a grin and was rewarded with the small, hesitant smile that he remembered so clearly. "Exactly. I have a feeling Cas is the best partner I could have on this one anyway. Sorry, Sammy."

Sam didn't look offended, though; he just narrowed his eyes at Dean like he was looking for something in Dean's expression. It took a moment for Sam to come to a decision based on whatever it was, but in the end he nodded.

"Okay." Dean stood and Carey jumped up next to him, silent and anxious. She looked exhausted, but she went to Sam's side and took his hand. "You'll look out for Sammy for me?" Dean asked her.

"Yes," she promised.

* * *

Dean went to the Impala's trunk instead of the driver's seat once they got out to the car. Digging through the assorted bags there, he came up with a plain white button-up and tossed it at Cas.

"See if that fits," he instructed. "I think it's Sam's from a while back, but at least it'll cover the, you know..." He waved at Cas's torso before turning back to the trunk and searching for a tie. If they ran into anyone on the way and Cas kept his hands out of sight to hide the washed off cover-up there, he'd just seem like a regular businessman—albeit one with a streak of blue on his face. As long as no one got too close, that would be all it looked like.

He went to give the tie to Cas and faltered. Cas had discarded his coat and torn shirt, leaving his top half bare in the yellow glow of the streetlights. The angle of his body, facing slightly away from Dean, put his back and shoulder on display and he was so inhuman that Dean felt the adrenaline of the hunt kicking up his pulse again.

He wasn't going to gank Cas, they'd clearly established that. But he looked like something Dean should kill and that was messing with his head. He kept swinging back and forth between seeing Cas as a monster and seeing Cas as Cas.

The blue skin was almost normal by now. He'd more or less known to expect the bright purple tentacles growing from Cas's shoulders. The other cnaiad's had been in plain view, and Cas had brought them up again as they left, warning Sam not to touch the body.

"The nematocysts in the tentacles remain dangerous for several days after death," Cas had said. "The toxin is fatal."

So it was still weird to see them sprouting out of Cas's weirdly colored skin, but Dean could cope. What really got to him was the unexpected, an oblong, turtle-like shell patterned in brown and green and a touch of black. It stretched from a tapered point at the base of Cas's neck, curving down just below his shoulder blades until it covered the entire expanse of his mid and lower back, disappearing into the waistline of his pants right as it started to narrow.

Cas pulling on the shirt blocked Dean's view of the armor, but it stuck in his mind. He couldn't figure out exactly why it was bothering him more than the tentacles, which were clearly much, much stranger. As far as that sort of thing went, a defensive shell to protect vital organs—assuming they were in the same place—even made more sense than stinging, poisonous shoulder pompoms.

He was so preoccupied with ranking the absurdities of Cas's species that he didn't notice the man himself had finished putting on the shirt and turned around, looking questioningly at Dean and the tie he was still holding.

"Is that for me to wear?" Cas asked, snapping Dean out of his thoughts.

"Yeah." Dean passed it to his outstretched hand. He was distracted for another moment by the contrast of navy blue cloth against Cas's lighter, greener palm, but moved on more quickly. "I've found it pays to look respectable when you're doing something really, really suspicious. Tell me where we're going?"

Cas flipped up his collar and looped the tie around his neck as he answered. "There's a slough on the bay that was formerly used for the commercial production of salt, but has reverted to a marsh. It is an unusual choice of location, but there's nothing else—What?"

Cas stopped his explanation when Dean stopped being able to hold in his laughter. More importantly, he also stopped adjusting his tie, which was by that point a mess of a square knot with its ends sticking out and dropping down like sad puppy ears.

Since Dean couldn't catch his breath long enough to answer, Cas looked down at the tangle and scowled. "I've never had occasion to wear one of these before," he said as he started to grumpily pull it apart.

Dean recovered, stepping forward and batting Cas's hands away. "I got it. Stop, just, I got it.

"I used to have to do this for Sammy," Dean explained as he smoothed the tie out and tugged the ends into the proper length, then started in on a proper knot. "It's not hard, I can show you sometime."

Finishing the knot, Dean folded Cas's collar back down before tugging it into place.

"Thank you," Cas said gravely, and Dean looked up from his neck to meet his eyes. They were soft and blue and grateful, and Dean tried unsuccessfully to pretend the gratitude there was just for a tie that didn't look stupid.

He realized his hands still lingered near Cas's throat and pulled them away, spinning around so quickly he almost stumbled.

"Right, let's go."

In the Impala they were silent, other than a few directions from Cas to start them in the right direction. But the quiet meant that Dean dwelled on things that he couldn't afford to be distracted by, so he decided on a good, relevant line of conversation instead.

"You never said why they're doing this, or why they need the whole family."

"Procreation," Cas answered immediately. Dean had to clutch the wheel tightly to make sure he didn't drive off the road.

"Are you kidding me? They're—They want the kids for that? I've been doing this crap a long time, and that's the sickest thing I've heard yet."

The noise Cas made was thoughtful, surprised by and then understanding Dean's reaction. "Not sexual. Propagation, if you prefer. The ritualized killing of the entire family unit under the right circumstances births a cnaiad child telepathically linked to those who created it."

Cas's voice was so matter-of-fact that Dean's teeth clenched and his knuckles turned white where they gripped the steering wheel. He struggled with his anger, because Cas was trying to help, trying to stop it. But he was still one of them.

"You guys have to kill people to make more of you. That's just... Is that where you came from?"

Dean glanced over at Cas, who frowned back at him and then turned away, staring out the window for so long that Dean didn't think he was going to answer. The guilt of what he'd asked—it wasn't like Cas had had a choice in being born, after all—had just edged up into a hard ball in his throat when Cas spoke.

"It's the familial connection between the sacrifices that ties a new cnaiad into the hive mind." It seemed like a non-sequitur, but Dean didn't interrupt. "There is no concept of individuality or choice. Decisions are made by the collective will of the colony.

"When the family used in the ritual does not have that connection, when they are unhappy and hateful and scared—" Cas broke off, pointing silently to a side street and Dean turned obediently.

They drove another few blocks before Cas went on, "I was made through the murder of a broken family. Because of it, I do not share the bond I should with my brethren; I am alone in my thoughts. I am broken."

He sounded so sad and lost that Dean's heart, which grew up on the road with a tiny family he tried to keep together amidst the violence of their lives, ached for the lonely boy he'd met, befriended, and abandoned.

Though still deep with emotion, Cas's voice grew stronger as he went on, "But my distance allowed me to see what the others could not. Where they have only the collective drive to spread, I could understand how wrong it was to slaughter families just to grow our numbers. I spoke out. My opinion was not shared."

Dean had to snort at that obvious understatement. "Screw them anyway."

He managed to surprise Cas into another gentle smile, though it was still directed out the window instead of to Dean.

Dean thought for a moment, then asked, "So the first time we met, in South Dakota, was that when...?"

"No, I had already been exiled by that point. Being summoned and forced back into proximity with my colony was difficult, but it gave me the opportunity to try and stop what they were doing."

Dean turned to stare at Cas for as long as he safely could before looking back to the road. His colony. That had specifically been Cas's colony that was trapped around that lake. It had been Cas's family, such as it was, that had been killing people. That John had tried to hunt without knowing it, and instead freed them by killing the witch.

"Is this your colony too? Is that why you're here?"

"No." This time Cas was the one to turn, his intense gaze tingling at the side of Dean's neck even when Dean had to focus his attention on driving again. All traces of longing were gone from his voice, replaced with blunt, heavy determination. "My colony has not been a threat since shortly after South Dakota. In the intervening time, the same has become true of many others."

Laughing was definitely not the correct response to Cas's implied admission of killing his own kind, but Dean did it anyway.

"Sorry," he said to Cas's questioning look, "It's just, here I was telling Sam that you weren't a hunter. Even back then, huh? You knew exactly who I was and what I was doing there."

Cas had played him from the start, but Dean was done being mad about it. If he, of all people, couldn't understand the need for secrets and discretion, no one else stood a chance. It was actually kind of nice to know that they'd had more in common than he thought.

Still, Cas's voice was soft and uncertain as he began, "I apologize for my deceptions—"

"Forget it, man, it's fine. Not like I wasn't lying too, right?"

"Right," Cas said slowly, after a pause like it might be a trick question. Then he said, "Stop here. We'll need to walk the rest of the way."

After Dean traded out his silver bullets for brass—cheaper and "just as effective," according to Cas—and pulled on a thick leather jacket and a pair of gloves to avoid as much contact with angry, deadly tentacles as possible, they picked their way down to the marsh through the dark, avoiding the trails. Cas led the way, silent and just barely visible in the moonlight.

He didn't seem to have a specific destination in mind once they got to the flats, trailing along the coastline where the reeds were thickest. Dean let him search for the Stecks in the foliage; his own focus was on watching for undesired company. They were pretty well shrouded by the darkness, but had no other form of cover.

A muffled grunt drew his attention to a particularly dense growth of tall grass, where Cas had already knelt down to reach for Colin and Grace.

They were bound and gagged, looking a little bloody but otherwise no worse for wear. Except that they were absolutely terrified, trying desperately to move themselves in the muddy ground, trying to get away from Cas's outstretched hand.

Either the darkness couldn't mask the hue of his skin, or they were justifiably scared of strangers after the night they'd had.

"It's fine," Dean reassured as loudly as he dared, crouching at Cas's side so they could see him. "He's one of the good guys. Here."

Dean pulled out his boot knife and passed it to Cas to free Grace, while he used the one from his belt to see to Colin. His spine tingled at having to put his gun down to do it, but he figured that getting the civilians out of there quickly was more important.

"Carey!" Grace gasped as soon as Cas got her gag out.

"She's safe," Dean promised. "She's at home with my partner and we're gonna take you back to her. Can you stand?"

They could, especially with support from the two hunters, and together the group shuffled back up towards dry land. They hadn't made it far when splashing started behind them, loud and growing louder.

Barely pausing to exchange a glance, Dean and Cas ducked out from the arms across their shoulders. Dean forced his keys into Colin's still trembling hands even as he turned to face the group of dark shapes running towards them.

"Car's just up on the road. If we're not there in twenty minutes or you see them coming instead of us, you get the hell back to your house. Got it?"

He could feel their hesitation, a thousand questions he didn't have time for them to ask because the two figures—bound to be cnaiads, but he couldn't see well enough to be sure—were almost upon them.

"Go!" he yelled, and finally they did.

The crack of a gunshot startled Dean; he hadn't seen Cas draw. The figure on the left stumbled, clutching at his outside shoulder, but kept coming. As Dean raised his weapon to fire at the other one, hoping to at least slow it down, something grabbed his ankle and dragged him down.

Dean's gun went flying as he landed in several inches of sand and water. A grunt and series of splashes beside him proved Cas had been caught by surprise, too.

Kicking out and twisting away from the hand gripping his leg, Dean tried to scramble to his feet and regain his lost gun at the same time. He succeeded in the latter and got a hand around the slide, thankful that for once his luck wasn't awful and it hadn't fallen far.

Unfortunately, his attempt to get free didn't go as well. Something heavy slammed into his back, grappling to hold him down. One hand, cold and dripping wet, forced his face into the water and he got mouthfuls of grit and grass as he struggled to get out, get air. The cnaiad's other hand was doing something at his back, grabbing or scratching that tugged on the leather of his coat, but Dean's focus was on the increasing feeling of tightness in his chest.

His lungs were moments from bursting when the weight vanished. Pushing to his knees and gasping for breath, Dean abandoned his gun once more so he could wipe the dirt from his eyes and see what was going on. It was probably useless now anyway; with all the water and grit it had been exposed to, it was just a likely to jam or even misfire as work.

Cas's arm was locked around the cnaiad he had pulled off of Dean. Though the cnaiad tugged at the arm around his neck and his tentacles latched onto Cas where his upper arm and wrist were in their range, Cas held fast. Cas's other hand gripped the cnaiad's, where Dean saw a strangely lumpy and glistening knife. That must have been what he'd felt snagging on his jacket.

It was an uneven match, and Cas clearly had the upper hand as he forced the knife towards the other cnaiad's own chest. Dean had other things to worry about.

He turned to the oncoming cnaiads, finally so close he could see that Cas's shot had taken out the anemone-like growth on one's shoulder. He reached for his knife and realized with a wash of panic that it must have fallen out while he was fighting not to drown. Cas still had his boot knife, unless that had been lost too, so Dean was left with a small switchblade from his pocket as the two cnaiads approached. They too held long, bumpy knives that gleamed in the scant light.

Before they could get into slashing range, Dean was tugged backwards again—this time by Cas, who put himself between Dean and his kin. Dean didn't need to look back to know that the cnaiad Cas had been fighting was dead; the dark red blood running down the odd knife Cas had claimed as his own was evidence enough.

The two cnaiads stopped short a few feet from Cas. They seemed to be sizing him up, so Dean took the chance to kneel and grope around for a weapon—any weapon—without taking his eyes off the stand-off. He also used the time to assess what they were up against.

They were both around the same height as Cas. Their coloration was a bit different, one a little more green and the other, the one Cas had injured earlier, a little more purple, but the underlying blue was definitely still there. The tentacles were there, too, other than the messy lump on the purple one's shoulder. Dean couldn't see their backs at this angle, but he was sure that there would be large, protective shells if he could.

His fingertips brushed the hilt of his knife just as one of the cnaiads spoke.

"Abomination."

That was the green one, his voice not quite as deep as Cas's but much rougher. He probably didn't use it much, Dean reflected; Cas had said they were mostly telepathic.

Dean straightened, knife in hand. Cas remained silent.

"You will die for your crimes," the other cnaiad said, "and your blood will mingle with your human partner's to begin a new generation."

"Yeah, sorry, not happening," Dean said, stepping forward to stand beside Cas. "It's just that I have this policy against dying in creepy sea monster monster rituals.

"No offense, Cas," he added as an afterthought.

"We will discuss it later," Cas promised. Even though Dean knew the dark threat in his tone was caused by the cnaiads, a chill ran up his spine at the sound of it. He hadn't really planned to piss Cas off anyway, but he was quickly reevaluating his chances of winning if they ever ended up on opposite sides.

"Dean's right, however," Cas continued, and his voice softened with an edge of sadness. "I can't let you to continue your efforts. Your colony is down to two; you will not triumph. If you lay down your weapons, I will make this as painless for you as possible."

It was never going to work. But it did prompt both of the cnaiads to lunge for Cas and ignore Dean, which was convenient but also a little insulting. He threw himself into the fight, but he wasn't quick enough. Cas had only been able to parry one of the knives, so the other opened a long gash down his exposed side.

Cas grunted and Dean swore. The cnaiads were still focused on Cas, so Dean caught the second one—the green one, the one who had hurt Cas—by surprise, grabbing the hand with the knife and twisting it away before it could do any more damage. The cnaiad turned to snarl at him, but it quickly turned to a shocked rictus of pain as Dean drove his blade deep into the cnaiad's stomach.

Ruthlessly, Dean yanked back on the knife, ripping through soft innards until it came free underneath the cnaiad's ribs. Dean had an uneasy flashback to the first time he'd gutted a fish as the cnaiad fell away, but shoved it down to spin back to Cas and the last enemy, ready to step in again.

He shouldn't have worried. The purple cnaiad slumped to the ground with a splash, both of his tentacle growths reduced to stumps and Cas's knife sticking out of his neck.

Dean locked eyes with Cas, alert for anything else coming at them in the dark but unable to look away. All the makeup on his face had been washed and rubbed away in the fight, leaving his entire visage its natural blue. Cas's wet shirt pulled tight across his chest as he caught his breath; it emphasized the dark stain spreading from his side, finally pulling Dean's attention from Cas's intense, triumphant look.

"Shit, that looks bad." He reached for the shirt to get a better view of the damage, but Cas took his outstretched hand to stop him. With a jolt, Dean took in their joined hands; it was the first time, he realized, that he had touched Cas without fabric in the way. The cnaiad's skin was cooler than a human's, cooler than could be explained by his exposure to the water and the night air, but not so cold that it was uncomfortable to hold.

"I'm fine, Dean," Cas said, pulling Dean's attention back to the moment. "We heal quickly from anything short of death. I'll be fully recovered by the time we return to the Stecks' home."

"Okay." Dean squeezed Cas's hand, reassuring himself of something, he wasn't even sure what, then let go. "Okay. We should get to the Impala before they leave without us, it'd be a long walk back to town."

* * *

Pulling up to the house brought Dean a sick shock of déjà vu. The door hung open, and lights were on all over the house. Something was very, very wrong. Something had happened to Sam and Carey.

"Stay in the car," he ordered the Stecks. "Cas?"

Cas was already out and heading for the porch at a run. If Dean had had the time, he would have yelled for Cas to come back and not charge into the unknown with only an extremely questionable knife made from, as Cas had explained it, sharpened oyster shells. The guns they'd taken to the marshy slough were out of commission, but Dean had a whole trunkful of other firearms, machetes, and even a baseball bat with nails spiked through it. He didn't know where that last one had come from and hadn't yet had a reason to use it, but he got a kick out of its existence.

For the time being, he grabbed two handguns, shoved one down the back of his jeans, and hurried after Cas.

He caught up to him in the kitchen, where Cas hunched over a body slumped on the floor.

"Sam!"

"I'm all right," Sam groaned more than said, sitting up. "Bastard just caught me by surprise. He's got Carey upstairs. Go! I'll catch up."

Dean sprinted for the stairs, Cas close behind him and Sam not far after, but they stopped short at the picture waiting for them. A cnaiad stood at the top, his navy blue arm wrapped around Carey's torso to hold her in the air above the steps. Her face, streaked with tears and pale with fear, was dangerously close to the blood-red tentacles twitching at his shoulders.

Even worse, he pressed yet another of those shell knives against Carey's throat. It hadn't broken the skin yet, but an irritated red line was starting to form.

Dean aimed at the cnaiad's head, but it was mostly for show; he didn't dare fire with Carey in such a precarious position. He was a damn good shot, but if the cnaiad's arm jerked wrong or Carey fell against his tentacles, or if she couldn't stop herself from falling down the stairs, Dean wouldn't be able to save her. It was too risky.

The cnaiad only had eyes for Cas—crazy, angry eyes that looked black even in the bright lighting.

"I felt them die." The cnaiad's was dark and rough, and it cracked as he said, "I'm _alone_ now."

"I am sorry," Cas said, stepping in front of Dean, and he again sounded so sincere with it. "I wish there were another way, but you can't stop being what you are and neither can I."

Unlike Sam, Dean had never felt any sympathy for the creatures they'd hunted, even the ones who had been human once. Whether or not they had a choice in what they became, the fact was that they were monsters of one sort or another and they needed to be stopped.

But now, watching his friend the cnaiad apologize to his enemy the cnaiad for the differences in their nature, he suddenly had a whole new appreciation for the humanity of some of some supernatural creatures. If that wasn't ironic, Dean didn't know what was. Which, admittedly, was a strong possibility; he hadn't wasted a whole lot of effort on any of his various literature classes over the years.

"I'll find a new colony," the cnaiad vowed. "We will make new children, more and more until the seas team with us, and we will bring our vengeance crashing over you."

A chill ran up Dean's spine, but Cas was unfazed. His voice quiet but hard, he said, "Yes, you could find another colony. But if you take this human child, if you harm her, I'll find you. You know what I've done. I'll destroy every last one of your brothers, every one of your sons. I will tear down everything you've built."

The cnaiad sneered. "If I let her go, you won't let me leave."

"That's why you're going to take me in her place," Cas answered, to Dean's horror. "I'll be your safe passage. I will not fight, even once you're away from here. Hunters are no threat to you when compared with me. You will have your vengeance before you even find another colony."

It was wrong to let the cnaiad go knowing what he'd do. Even ignoring Cas, because he was possibly—hopefully—bluffing, there were countless families out there who would suffer and die if the cnaiad followed through with his plan. The balance of lives was against it. John would never let it happen.

Looking at Carey's terrified eyes, thinking of her parents frantic and waiting in the car, Dean knew he was going to do it anyway. Then he was going to hunt down the son of a bitch and make him pay. He wasn't exactly a stranger to quests for vengeance, either.

"If they already know I'm going to kill you, you're not much good as a hostage. What's to stop your humans from shooting us both once I have you?"

Dean would never write off Cas's life like that, but he didn't think there was a place for him in these negotiations.

"No," the cnaiad went on, "I won't be fooled so easily. Give up your weapons, then I'll make the trade."

A silent standoff stretched between them, broken only by Carey's soft sniffles.

"Dean?" Sam asked uncertainly.

As much as he hated it, it wasn't Dean's call to make this time. He tore his gaze away, looking at Cas. "Cas?"

"Do it." Cas was still staring hard up at the other cnaiad, but after a moment he turned to look back at Dean. His smile, slight and sad, hit Dean like a kick to the ribs. This was really it. "Please, Dean."

Wordlessly, Dean nodded. He cut his eyes back to the cnaiad on the stairs and raised his hands, finger off the trigger. Crouching down without looking away, he slowly lowered his hand to place his gun on the ground. If he was careful not to bend over too far, the cnaiad wouldn't be able to see the second firearm, the one he'd grabbed for Cas, still hidden under the back of his shirt. Risky, if he did get caught, but Dean was ready to take any advantage he could.

He heard Sam and Cas also putting down their gun and knife, respectively, then the cnaiad relaxed fractionally.

"All right," the cnaiad said, "you two, humans, back into the other room."

They obeyed, Dean darting a few glances behind himself to make sure he didn't run into anything. He didn't want to lose sight of the cnaiad, though, or twist too far and reveal his hidden weapon.

Once they reached the center of the kitchen, he let them to stop. They could still see the scene on the stairs but were too far to run for the guns before the cnaiad could do anything.

The cnaiad came down the steps slowly, still holding Carey against his chest. When he got to the base of the staircase, he kicked the one of the guns and the knife out of Cas's reach. The gun smacked against the wall on the far side of the room, but the knife went skittering all the way out the open door and off the porch.

Depending on how far it had gone and how the cnaiad did the exchange, Cas might have a chance at getting his knife back. And if he tried, Dean would be ready as soon as the cnaiad was distracted.

Unfortunately, instead of kicking the other gun too, the cnaiad crouched down to pick it up. There was only a split second of time between him letting go of the knife and grabbing the gun, and Carey was clutched tightly in front of him the whole time. Not even Cas had a chance to rush him before he had the gun held against Carey's head. He kicked his own knife out of the way.

"Follow me to the door," the cnaiad ordered Cas as he started walking backwards towards it, still using the girl as a shield between him and the others. "I'll let her go once we're outside."

Cas followed at a careful distance. His movements were slow, deliberately non-threatening, and he didn't even twitch as they passed the discarded gun.

The cnaiad stopped just outside the door, then waited for Cas to join him on the porch. Without letting her out of his line of fire, he set Carey down and backed away a few steps.

The moment he shifted his aim away from her and towards Cas, he grunted and stumbled, his hand dropping in surprise. Dean didn't waste a second, drawing and putting three rounds in the cnaiad's chest before he even took a breath.

The cnaiad fell forward, landing heavily and not moving. Sticking out of the back of his right leg, an oyster shell knife glistened grey, black, and red in the light.

Off to the side and lower down, standing in the bushes framing the porch, was Grace Steck. She jumped up and ran for Carey, cradling her sobbing child and ignoring the body less than a foot away from them. Colin was at her side moments later.

Cas, meanwhile, knelt down beside the cnaiad.

"Dead," he announced as Dean and Sam reached him on the porch.

Dean looked over at the Stecks, shaken by their ordeal but together and safe, and smiled. "We should get outta here before someone calls the cops. Anything special we need to do to get rid of that?" He gestured at the corpse.

Cas hoisted his dead cousin—it was as good a word as any—over his shoulders and stood. "I usually leave them in the ocean. Carnivores and scavengers will feed on them as they decompose."

"Wow, Cas. Dark."

Cas blinked at Dean, then looked out over the yard. "Yes, but we won't need much illumination. Your car's headlights should be sufficient to get the body to the water."

Sam made a sound that was pretty clearly a badly stifled laugh. "That's not—"

"You're right, Cas," Dean interrupted. "It'll be fine. Come on, let's get this over with."

He turned to watch the reunited family one last time. They were oblivious to the hunters' departure, which was probably for the best. They didn't need to have supernatural crap messing with their lives any more than it had already.

And if something did come up, well, they had Dean's number.

* * *

Exhausted, wet, and triumphant, the three of them stumbled through the door to Sam's place at nearly two in the morning and were therefore surprised to find Jessica waiting in the living room for them. She did not appear to be impressed; then she caught sight of Cas and her mouth dropped open.

"Honey, I'm home?" Sam tried with a grin that kept a bit too much smugness to qualify as endearing.

"Sam, Dean," she greeted warily, her eyes fixed on the man between them.

"Hey, Jess. This is Cas," Dean said.

"He's covered in blood. He's _blue_!"

Dean glanced between his friend and his brother's girlfriend. Jess looked astonished and suspicious, but Cas just looked like Cas: slightly perplexed, solemn, and earnest. And covered in blood. Also, yes, blue. He couldn't resist the absurdity anymore and his smirk turned into a chest-heaving laugh as he said, "He sure is."

Sam's joy had faded, though. "Yeah, we... We should talk about some things."

Dean stepped forward, about to intervene, but Sam looked over and shook his head.

"I think I'd better handle this one on my own," he said softly, ushering Jess upstairs.

Dean looked over to Cas again and saw him pulling at the shoulders of his borrowed, bloodstained shirt, face a grimace.

"Sorry, I know it's a bit small. You can take it off if your, uh, sea monster bits are getting uncomfortable."

Cas's baleful glare turned on him and Dean shrunk back slightly, though he didn't lose his grin.

"I would appreciate if you did not refer to my tentacles, shell, or other anatomical normalities for my species as 'sea monster bits.'"

"Are there, uh..." Dean's gaze dropped briefly to Cas's crotch, because he was still thirteen years old at heart, and he coughed slightly. He'd been a little too busy to keep looking for differences in the cnaiad corpses, and definitely hadn't checked anything below the waist. Raising his eyes, he knew from Cas's smirk that the glance hadn't gone unnoticed. Cas just kept staring, forcing Dean to break down and finish, "Are there other 'anatomical normalities' for your species that are different from mine?"

"Yes," Cas said simply and pulled off his already loose tie. The shirt followed, and Dean could only stare as his bright violet tentacles writhed and stretched at the newfound freedom. Since Castiel ceased his stripping with that, Dean pushed aside the question of other strange cnaiad parts to focus on the ones in front of him.

At close range, the tentacles' likeness to sea anemones became even more clear, down to the blobby bit they could recede into. That part matched the rest of Cas's skin, but the waving fingers themselves were so vibrant that Dean would almost swear they were glowing. In fact, if he hadn't seen them in the dim night earlier, he'd have been sure there had to be some inner source of light to them.

Their movement through the air looked smooth and fluid, as if they were fully submerged, drifting to and fro with the eddies of a tide pool, but Sam's living room didn't offer even the hint of a draft. Dean's curiosity built, as did his urge to just reach out and—

The tentacles vanished into their protective covering as Cas scowled at him. "I told you our nematocysts carry a highly potent venom," he growled. "To be specific, it's a combination of a rapidly effective cytotoxin and a slow-acting neurotoxin. Do you have a particular wish to spend about an hour in agony as your skin turns necrotic and tries to fall off, until the creeping paralysis finally reaches your lungs and you suffocate?"

Dean snatched his hand back. "Yeah, no, pass. For the record, that level of detail is just creepy."

Expression softening, Cas said, "I intended for the graphic nature of my explanation to discourage future attempts."

"Yeah, well, consider that done."

"Your wellbeing is important to me, Dean," he insisted. "You are very literally the only friend I've ever had."

"Shit, Cas, you gotta know you're important to me, too. I didn't get to have friends either—still don't, unless you count Sammy and that's a whole 'nother mess—and leaving you like that... One of the biggest fights I've ever had with my dad."

As they stared at each other, processing the tentative confessions, warmth settled into Dean's chest. Part of it was familiar, reminiscent of his first budding friendship with the odd, quiet boy in a tiny town. The rest promised something new, comforting despite its uncertainty.

Feet tramped down the stairs before he could prod at that feeling too deeply. Jess strode over first, looking determined as she got within a foot of Dean's face and glared searchingly up at him.

"Ghosts?" she demanded.

Dean, more wary of her than he had been of the group of murderous sea creatures, nodded vigorously.

"Vampires."

"Yes ma'am."

"Whatever the hell that is?" She gestured past him towards Cas, making Dean wince. Her gaze followed her finger and, without giving him a chance to respond, she all but shrieked in his ear, "Is it growing _anemones_? Really, you guys?"

Dean might have growled, just a little. "This is my friend Cas, and _he_ "—Dean stressed the pronoun—"just risked his ass to save a bunch of people, so I don't think it really matters if it's blue or not."

At Sam's choked snicker, Dean replayed the comment and coughed, darting a look at Cas. He looked as amused as he ever did; which was to say, mildly.

"I mean, I assume. Not that I've—you know what, you're getting distracted here."

The distraction turned out to be a helpful one, though: through it, Jess had recovered her demeanor and looked abashed.

"I'm sorry, that was unbelievably rude of me," she said, finally addressing Cas directly. "Can we try that again? Hi, I'm Jessica. Jess."

She held out her hand and Cas took it, turquoise skin appearing even darker as it pressed against her pale palm.

"I'm Castiel. Cas."

"It's good to meet you, Cas. I'm sorry again for my behavior. I was a little overwhelmed, but that's no excuse."

With a wry look at Dean, Cas told her, "It's fine. In fact, given that your reaction didn't involve repeated threats to kill me, it qualifies as one of the milder outcomes of the day."

"Yeah, well, Dad would've actually shot you. So you're welcome." Dean, still a bit defensive from Sam's mockery, crossed his arms and frowned back at Cas.

"He still might if we don't handle the introductions carefully," Sam pointed out. "Have you heard back from him yet, Dean? Is he on the way?"

Dean tried to signal Sam with a subtle shake of his head, not wanting to get into John's disappearance just yet, but then Jess added, "I think I'm overdue for meeting the parent."

"Yeah, uh, about that. Can I see you in private for a minute, Sammy?"

From the scrunch of Sam's nose and the pursing of his lips, Dean knew what his answer would be before it came. "No. Whatever it is, you can say it in front of Jess. I'm done hiding things."

Glancing between his set expression, Jess's open curiosity, and Cas's confusion, Dean didn't see the point of arguing.

"Dad's been AWOL for a bit. I was actually on my way here to see if you'd help find him when you called."

As he went on to explain the hunt John had been on and the warning delivered via voicemail, Sam's face grew more and more conflicted.

"I can't," he said finally in a strained voice. "I've got an interview for law school on Monday, I've got—I've got a whole life here, I can't just... I'm sorry, Dean."

"Of course we can!"

Sam and Dean both turned to look at Jess.

"What?" Sam asked, but Dean picked up on the bigger issue.

"I'm sorry, did you say 'we?' As in: no way, you're not coming?"

They both ignored him in favor of a rapidly whispered argument that Dean could have followed, if not for the prickly sensation on the back of his neck telling him that someone had decided to stand way too close behind him.

"Cas," he acknowledged as he turned and took a step back. Cas studied his face, blue eyes roving under furrowed brows as he tried to work something out from Dean's expression in the silence.

Once that had gone on long enough with nothing coming of it, Dean prompted, "What's up?"

"I believe I could be of assistance, if you'll permit me to accompany you."

Before Dean could respond, Sam concluded his debate and wearily announced, "All right, I guess we're in."

Dean threw his hands up in exasperation, though he couldn't actually find it in himself to be upset. He loved the idea of hitting the road with Sam again, and though he'd been looking forward to having some time with just the two of them, he wasn't disappointed at the thought of Jess and Cas coming along.

Jess was great, and Sammy was obviously smitten. Having her along would be good for him, and she had taken everything more or less in stride. In the worst case scenario, it wouldn't work out and they'd send her back on a bus. It was worth a try, for Sam's sake.

Cas was coming because he'd offered, because he was basically a hunter and he really could help. But Dean also thrilled a little at the idea of reconnecting with his friend, getting to know him all over again when they could both be honest about themselves.

"Yeah, sure," he grumbled for the sake of appearances. "It'll be a party, why the hell not."

They'd find John and figure out what was going on, why he'd sounded so worried in that last phone call and then vanished. Introductions would probably be a disaster, but Dean would deal with that when it happened. He stubbornly ignored the question of how, once they did find John, they'd fit five people in the Impala.

For now, his biggest problem was that he really, _really_ needed a shower.


End file.
